Childhood Brush With Detection
by Under0The0Sea
Summary: Oneshot. A young Sherlock Holmes tries to convince Mycroft that there is a ghost in thier house and wants Mycroft to help him look for it. A short story whose plot would not leave me alone.


_I actually didn't think I'd ever write any Sherlock Holmes fan fiction. However fate had other ideas. For some reason this oneshot popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. I found that I couldn't do anything else, be it draw, read or write, without bits of dialogue from this popping into my head. So eventually I decided just to write this. It's now about 1.00 in the morning and this story is done which means I can continue with my other writing and working on my art portfolio without being interrupted by the young Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. And now since I have written it I may as well post it; so here it is and I hope you enjoy it._

Mycroft Holmes was reading. The house was quiet for once; his father was in town for several days on business and his mother had gone to visit a sick relative leaving her two children in the care of the household servants. She had left with a flurry of activity and a stern warning to her children to '_behave_' and since then Mycroft had enjoyed free reign of the house.

Of course it wasn't a completely free reign as he had spent much of his time trying - and most of the time failing - to keep his younger brother, Sherlock, out of trouble. Now for the first time in far too long, Sherlock was playing quietly by himself and Mycroft was taking advantage of the peace to catch up with his reading.

Mycroft was far too intelligent not to realise that his new-found peace wouldn't last but that didn't mean he wasn't irritated when he heard tiny fists hammering on his door and his brothers shrill voice calling his name. Mycroft tried to ignore his younger sibling with a spite he reserved especially for Sherlock however it proved impossible to concentrate on his book with the racket Sherlock was making.

The fourteen year old was about to give Sherlock grudging permission to enter his room when the door flew open and Sherlock barrelled in sans permission but with a ridiculous look of ecstasy on his face.

"Guess what Mycroft?" he said nearly bouncing up and down with excitement.

"What is it Sherlock?" Mycroft asked crossly, closing his book with more force than was strictly necessary.

"There's a ghost in the house!" Sherlock announced with relish.

"A ghost?" Mycroft repeated with considerably less relish. "Ghosts do not exist Sherlock." he opened his book again meaning to go back to the comfort of science.

"Actually they do exist Mycroft." the young Holmes proclaimed. "I read about them. There were three ghosts and they visited the man, who wasn't a very nice man, and they visited him one by one and showed him his past and his present and his future and then because of the ghosts the man decided that he would become a nice man to try and make up for all the horrible things he'd done." Sherlock finished his narrative with a deep breath and looked at his older brother expectantly. Mycroft blinked.

"Sherlock that's the plot to 'A Christmas Carol'. That's not real, that's fiction." Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted stubbornly.

"What's fiction Mycroft?" he asked, "and if ghosts don't exist then why would someone write about them?" rather than try to explain to his younger brother the difference between fiction and non-fiction which would take more time and patience than Mycroft possessed he decided he may as well get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible.

"What evidence have you for the frankly ridiculous notion that there is a ghost in our house?" he asked. Sherlock looked at him blankly. Mycroft gave a weary sigh

"Why do you think there's a ghost in the house?" he paraphrased.

"_Well_…there's these strange noises I keep hearing." Sherlock began. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"More likely than not just the wind Sherlock" he said.

"And things keep going missing from my bedroom."

"Sherlock, your chambers are so messy it's no small wonder you cannot find anything and that things are going missing, however that does not mean there is a ghost."

"_And_," Sherlock continued, not at all perturbed by his brother's complete lack of interest "I saw something strange in the cellar last night."

"What on earth were you doing in the cellar Sherlock?"

His younger brother muttered something unintelligible. Mycroft sighed heavily. He knew that Sherlock would not give him a moments peace until the matter was sufficiently resolved to the seven year olds complete satisfaction.

"What do you want from me Sherlock?" he snapped with faint irritation that he was beginning to see as irrational.

"I want you to come and catch the ghost with me." Sherlock replied looking at his brother with large imploring eyes of melted steel. Mycroft closed his book and bowed, with reasonably good grace, to the inevitable.

"And where, pray tell me, does this fictional ghost reside?" Again his question was met with a blank look.

"Huh?" Sherlock said confusion evident on his face.

"Don't say 'huh' Sherlock. Say 'pardon' if you do not understand something. Where does the ghost live when he is not stealing things from your room?" His younger brothers sharp features arranged themselves into a look that quite questioned Mycroft's sanity.

"In the _cellar, _of course!" Sherlock said, his tone implying that it was obvious.

"The cellar, of course." Mycroft repeated with little enthusiasm.

"But we have to check everywhere just in case it's moved." Sherlock called as he danced out the room. Mycroft gave another heavy sigh as he contemplated what his life would have been like if he had been graced with a normal sibling or, better still, no siblings at all.

"There's nothing in here." Mycroft held the lantern up high and spun in a slow circle so that the light could illuminate every part of the damp cellar. They'd come to the cellar last, after thoroughly searching the living room, dining room, their fathers study, their mothers sitting room, and the kitchen for traces of the nonexistent ghost. Sherlock had determinedly scoured every room with Mycroft's magnifying glass searching for - well Mycroft hadn't the faintest idea what he was looking for.

"There was. It was here earlier." Sherlock replied half cowering behind his brother. His excitement at the existence of a ghost in their house and his desire to catch it seemed to have faded now they were standing in the cold, dank, cheerless cellar.

"Sherlock you're letting your imagination run away with you." Mycroft said impatiently and he once again passed the lantern beam over the room. Sherlock crossed his arms stubbornly

"Am not." he replied his eyes darting around the room searching for the ghost.

"_I_ am not, _I,_ Sherlock. When are you doing to learn to talk properly? And I can't believe I let you drag me down here. There's nothing here Sherlock. Are you satisfied now?" Sherlock was quiet for a moment his eyes searching the cellar but he finally nodded with an intensely thoughtful expression on his face and Mycroft assumed that this was the end of the matter.

Sherlock was quiet all day which Mycroft thought was a blessing and consequently he didn't question his siblings introspective state. He became a little concerned when Sherlock refused both luncheon and dinner, preferring to stay shut up in his room but Mycroft was more than used to Sherlock's sulks and left him alone knowing that he would snap out of it when he was ready and not before, no matter what anyone said or did.

Secretly, and with a tiny amount of guilt, Mycroft was pleased that Sherlock was sulking as it allowed him to pursue his book in sibling-free calm and silence. By the time he was in bed he had almost forgotten how irritated he had been with his sibling only that morning and so resolved to carry out his older sibling duties and see what was wrong with Sherlock in the morning.

Mycroft had turned off his lamps and was nearly asleep when he heard his door creak open.

"Mycroft." Mycroft tried to ignore the voice but, just like that morning, he found it near impossible.

"Mycroft? Mycroft are you awake?"

"No," replied Mycroft in a weary and defeated voice, his reply muffled by his pillow. He could imagine the slightly confused and very impatient expression on Sherlock's face at his illogical reply.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock sounded impatient. He shook Mycroft's shoulder and Mycroft impatiently pushed his sibling away.

"What is it now Sherlock? You should have been asleep ages ago!"

"The ghost! It's back. It went past my room. I heard it."

"I thought you'd given up on that nonsense." Mycroft snapped in reply. "You probably just imagined it. Now go back to sleep."

"_No_." Sherlock said with considerable vehemence, "It's outside right now. If you get up you'll see it." Mycroft didn't reply. "Please?" Sherlock said. Mycroft rolled his eyes, although the full effect was wasted as it was far too dark for Sherlock to see the exasperated gesture. He got out of bed and opened his door with some force but quietly so as not to disturb the 'ghost'.

"Where?" he whispered furiously. Sherlock grabbed his arm and pulled him out onto the landing. They walked the short distance to the top of the stairs and Mycroft sensed rather than saw Sherlock gesture wildly in the direction of a bobbing light that disappeared into the passage that led to the kitchen.

"Ghosts do not carry lanterns Sherlock." Mycroft hissed crossly. "I'm going back to bed now. Do not wake me again unless there is a fire or some other event where our lives are in extreme and imminent danger." Mycroft went back to his room and shut the door. He got back into bed, and was pulling the covers up over him when he once again heard his door creak open.

"Do you _still _think it's a ghost Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with more than a touch of impatience in his tone. He felt Sherlock sit down on his bed.

"No." Sherlock whispered back loudly. Mycroft felt relieved that this nonsense was at an end.

"I think it's a burglar." Mycroft groaned.

"Sherlock, really, have you learned nothing from this whole ghost affair?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose, clearly deep in thought.

"Well Mycroft I think I've learnt that solution you think of first is not always the right one. And that you should consider and check all possibilities. That way, see, I would have realised that it was actually a burglar and not a ghost."

"That wasn't quite what I meant Sherlock." Mycroft said wearily. He longed for his brother to go back to bed so he could go to sleep. Mycroft didn't have his younger brother's energy or motivation and so the day had been a taxing one for him. Searching for Sherlock's 'ghost' all over the house was not his idea of fun even if it did prove to his bothersome sibling that he was right and had served to remind Sherlock of his intellectual superiority.

"Will you help me catch him?" asked Sherlock.

"Catch who Sherlock?"

"The burglar!" Sherlock said, once again employing his _it's-obvious _tone.

"No. I am going back to sleep. And, if you were anything like a normal child, that is what you would be doing as well." Sherlock, with his usual determinedness (and pigheadedness), ignored his brother's hint.

"Mycroft, we _cannot _let the burglar continue stealing from our house! What would mother and father say?"

"What do you think mother and father would say if they found out you were not in bed and were proposing to go gallivanting - hold on what do you mean continuing?"

"The burglar has been before here before. Things are missing from my bedroom remember. It must have been the burglar I saw, not a ghost!"

"That does not make any sense at all. Why would a burglar return several nights in a row? The risk of being caught would surely increase as the occupants of the house notice that items have been taken and are, therefore, on guard. A burglar would not want to take that risk. And besides what burglar in their right mind would steal toys from your room and leave the silver and mother's necklaces?"

"How do you know mother's necklaces _aren't _missing?"

"Oh for goodness sake Sherlock. If you are so worried, in the morning I will go with you and check that mother's jewellery is still safe."

"The morning? But what about _now_?" Sherlock whined.

"_Now_, Sherlock, I am going back to sleep and you should too. If there really is a burglar pillaging our possessions, and I highly doubt there is, then the safest place for you is in bed"

Mycroft rolled over, away from his irksome sibling and shut his eyes. He hoped his lack of interest would be enough to convince his stubborn sibling that his protests were futile and that it would really be better for him to go back to bed.

"Fine." Sherlock said. Mycroft heard and felt his little brother slide off his bed and heard his footsteps padding towards the door. Mycroft was relieved. It was not usually in his inquisitive and nosy sibling's nature to walk away from a problem he had discovered no matter what the circumstances.

"I'm going to my bedroom to get a lantern. If you're not going to help me I'll just have to catch the burglar myself. Goodnight Mycroft."

"GdnightSherlock." murmured Mycroft unintelligibly, on the very edge of sleep.

Suddenly Mycroft was wrenched away from the arms of Morpheus. Did Sherlock say he was going to catch the burglar himself? There was no doubt in Mycroft's mind that the burglar was merely the product of Sherlock's overactive, overdramatic imagination however he knew how much trouble Sherlock could get himself into wandering around the house carrying a lit lantern.

He almost jumped out of bed, shoved his feet in his slippers and quickly sought, and threw on his dressing gown. Mycroft walked swiftly down the hall and entered his reckless siblings bedroom in time to see Sherlock sitting cross legged in a dull patch of weak moonlight trying unsuccessfully to light a match.

"Give me that!" he snapped, more out of fear than anger. "You're going to burn yourself doing it like that. And where on earth did you get matches from Sherlock?"

Mycroft knelt down beside Sherlock and took the match off his brother. He expertly struck the match and in the dancing light he saw that Sherlock's eyes were burning with anticipation and glee.

"Does this mean you're going to help me?" Sherlock asked, his little voice near quivering with excitement. It didn't escape Mycroft's notice that Sherlock hadn't answered his question.

"Yes." growled Mycroft with bad grace. "But does not mean I'm going to help you with every scheme that comes into your head from now on." Sherlock, however, did not appear to be listening.

As Mycroft lit a candle with the match, he reflected that Sherlock was uncommonly good at twisting people to obey his every whim, a skill which Mycroft was not at all happy that his brother possessed and even less happy that Sherlock seemed to be an expert at exercising.

"Quickly Mycroft!" said Sherlock shrilly in a loud whisper that was likely to have woken half the house. "We don't want him to get away."

"No, we wouldn't want that." Mycroft muttered more to himself than to Sherlock. Nevertheless he stood and with lantern in hand he picked his way carefully out of Sherlock's atrociously untidy bedroom. Sherlock scampered behind him full of childish expectation.

"Don't talk now Sherlock." hissed Mycroft as they walked slowly down the hall for the second time that night. If they were going to catch a 'burglar' they may as well do it properly. Also it would not do for anyone to find them out of bed.

"I'm not stupid Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed in a whisper that was not as noisy as his usual whisper but still near loud enough to wake the dead.

Together they crept slowly down the stairs. Sherlock was looking eagerly around him with his sharp grey eyes and Mycroft was thinking longingly of his bed. At the bottom of the stairs the brothers paused and Mycroft lightly grabbed Sherlock's wrist with his free hand to stop him running off. Sherlock tugged impatiently at Mycroft's arm and Mycroft followed Sherlock down the dark passageway.

As the kitchen came into view Mycroft saw warm orange light spilling invitingly from the half open door. Sherlock turned around and put his finger on lips with such an overdramatic flourish that Mycroft nearly laughed. The Holmes siblings stole towards the kitchen door and as one peered around it, into the kitchen; Sherlock's face was alive with curiosity, Mycroft looked faintly bored.

The scene that greeted the brothers filled Sherlock with surprise and confusion. Mycroft received a small amount of glee, born out of the slight sibling rivalry he and Sherlock shared, when he saw that he had indeed been right; it was not a burglar (as he'd known) merely Charlotte, a maid in their employment.

She was leaning out through one of the kitchen windows with her back to them, talking to a fairly attractive young man of about twenty, a gardener most probably or possibly a farm labourer Mycroft couldn't see enough of the man to tell. Mycroft was surprised that the man hadn't noticed the two boys staring at him - Sherlock with an expression not at all unlike a goldfish - however he seemed far too preoccupied with Charlotte to notice anything else around him.

Mycroft pulled Sherlock's arm and they backed away slowly and proceeded back down the corridor.

"I don't understand." Mycroft was expecting the statement however he wasn't sure how to proceed explaining what they saw to Sherlock.

"It's nothing Sherlock. Charlotte's merely taking advantage of the fact that mother and father are away and is entertaining a suitor." Sherlock wrinkled his nose disappointment and confusion mingled in his eyes.

"Not a burglar?"

"Definitely not a burglar." Mycroft confirmed and Sherlock sighed.

"I should have known." he murmured, "after all we found no traces of anyone unusual in the house earlier." Mycroft was surprised at the maturity of the statement but he had known for a long time that his brother wasn't even close to being a normal seven year old.

"I think it's time we were both getting back to bed." Mycroft said as gently as he could sensing his brothers disappointment. Sherlock, who looked exhausted now that he had ascertained that their house was not being robbed, nodded and allowed his brother to lead him up the stairs and back to his room. Mycroft was extremely glad that Sherlock's energy supplies had finally run out as Sherlock was now apparently too tired to question him about what a suitor was whereas under any other circumstances he would have lost no time giving Mycroft the third degree.

"You don't have to walk me to my room. I can get into bed myself; I am seven. Don't you trust me Mycroft?" asked Sherlock in a drowsy voice as they passed Mycroft's bedroom door. Mycroft didn't feel the need to answer that one. He pushed open Sherlock's door and Sherlock stumbled inside.

Mycroft waited until his brother had shrugged off his dressing gown, climbed into bed, yanked the covers up to his chin and finally closed his eyes before he turned to leave the room. He was closing the door when he heard Sherlock call out in a small sleepy voice.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes Sherlock?" What is it now? he thought, monsters under his bed or perhaps a witch hiding in his chest of drawers.

"When I'm grown up I'm going to be a detective so I can hunt for burglars properly." Sherlock pronounced sleepily but determinedly. Mycroft smiled a rare soft smile, although in the dim light there was no one to see it.

"You'll be a great detective Sherlock." he replied loyally.

At the time Mycroft had thought of it as nothing more than a fleeting childhood fantasy and sure enough it was soon forgotten. It wasn't until much later when most of London knew his brothers name and Sherlock had become the worlds first - and only - consulting detective that he remembered Sherlock's brief childhood brush with detection with a fond smile. You've made a great detective Sherlock, he thought truthfully as he put down the latest copy of 'The Strand' and left for Whitehall.

_Nb. _

_A Christmas carol was first published in 1843 and Sherlock was born somewhere in the early fifties so it is feasible that the young Holmes had read the Christmas carol. _

_Well I hope you enjoyed it and thank you for reading. Sorry if some parts seemed a little rushed, this story was written hopelessly out of order and I was still writing at about one in the morning by which time I just wanted to get it finished. So it may seem a little haphazard and unconnected at parts. I'm too tired to register if it seems unconnected at the moment but I may go back and change it._

_Thanks again for reading. _


End file.
